


The Wolf And The Rose

by Kendrene



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sansa Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, F/F, First Time, Omega Margaery Tyrell, Omega Verse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Canon Fix-It, Power Bottom Margaery, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Weddings, kind of an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: Sansa has been raised as Queen in the North, but what's a Queen without a mate? Her liege lords are pressing her to marry, but she already has someone in mind.ORThe one where I fix the clusterfuck that was season 8 of GoT





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a fun one-shot, but more than 11k words later I regret nothing. The story is completed and I'll post the other parts at ten day intervals. 
> 
> A word of warning on the past abuse tag - I couldn't deal with Sansa's character and gloss over what she went through, so there are mentions of her abuse in later chapters - nothing graphic, but just so we are on the same page you ought to know.
> 
> Happy reading.
> 
> \- Dren

Sansa stands at the window, hands resting atop the snow-covered balustrade. She doesn’t feel the cold (she is in fact barely aware of her fingers slowly going numb) and the wind that cuts through her layers of clothing is merely a nuisance.

She’s too caught up in her intense study of the reparation works that are being carried out all over Winterfell to care. 

Nights come fast and sudden this far North. One moment the sun is hanging over the horizon, a small, reddish orb without warmth, the next it drops behind Winterfell’s walls like some unseen hand reached up and plucked it out of the sky.

Sansa shudders. The Night King almost succeeded.

Despite the rapidly dwindling light, she can still pick out the workers. They crawl all over the battlements, lugging stone and other building materials up the wooden scaffolding that sprouted, quicker than mushrooms after a heavy rain, alongside the damaged parts of the outer wall.

They will work until the last shreds of light have left the sky, and be back at it come sunrise. As daylight dies, a hundred or more fires are lit atop the walls, candles are placed on each windowsill and bonfires rage in every courtyard.

The Army of the Dead has been defeated, vanquished by the might of the Targaryen dragons and the obsidian swords of Sansa’s and Daenerys’ combined hosts, but the memory is still fresh and her people – noble and commoner alike – are haunted by the darkness.

Behind her, the servants enter and lit the candles in her rooms, tend to the fireplace. And even though she has been through too much to jump at shadows, she does not begrudge them the need for fire and warmth. Fire is life, the Red Woman told her the night of the battle - fire will save us all. And, ultimately she’d been right. Now, some of Sansa’s people pray to the God of Light when they think nobody is around to listen. She doesn’t see the need to put a stop to it even though she doubts R’hollor has time to listen, much like the old gods or the Seven.

She’s called to them enough times to know they do not care about the plights of men.

“You’ve not eaten. Again.” Margaery’s voice is strong metal wrapped in silk and Sansa turns her back on the night and shuts the window. Unlike her, her Hand is not yet used to Winterfell’s omnipresent chill and is, even now, wearing a fur-lined cloak. Ermine, candid as the snow that covers the ground thickly. Sansa can’t help but notice how darker the omega’s eyes seem in comparison. Despite the cold and the dark and the hardiness of the men around her, the Rose of Highgarden hasn’t withered. Yet, it must be hard for her. The way the North holds court is unlike anything Margaery has ever experienced, Sansa surmises. Homespun wool and coarse furs replace brocades and silk and the food is less refined, but far more filling. But the worst part for Margaery must be the garden. Here, only the hardiest of buck roses grow, their colors pale even in summer as if they are perennially edged in frost. And none have bloomed since they all first left for the South, or so Sansa has been told.

It must be hard for her, but Sansa has said nothing because there are some things a lady never asks to another. Just like Margaery studiously avoided staring at the scars upon her back, the one morning she walked in while with a message from the Vale and caught Sansa still undressed.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Sansa raises a testy eyebrow.

“My Queen,” Margaery adds belatedly, but a smile accompanies the words. Sansa is not surprised: she can frown and sneer and posture all she wants, but the omega’s brown eyes are always unimpressed and all-too-knowing.

“There was too much to do.” She points at the parchments the newly appointed Maester left atop her desk. “There still is.”

“Nothing that can’t wait until the morrow surely?” Margaery pulls a chair back for her and waits until she’s seated before she speaks again. “Must I remind you how little will get done unless you keep your strength up, Your Grace?”

“Is it not what a Hand is supposed to do for her Queen?” Sansa’s riposte lacks bite and, with a sigh, she reaches for the tray of food her maids have left for her. “You needn’t, but it is nice.”

The bread is hard and the cheese so bitter that Sansa’s tongue curls a little at the taste, but she is hungrier than she thought. Before she is really aware of it, she’s licking the last crumbs of bread from her fingers and staring at the dregs of her mulled wine. 

Margaery says nothing, but Sansa thinks she glimpses the edges of a smirk as the omega drinks from her own cup. 

Whenever they are alone like this, there is a stillness, and tonight isn’t any different. The air thickens and Sansa has to force it down her lungs while her stomach contracts a funny way. Perhaps it’s worse than usual this time. Worse because of what she means to ask. 

Sansa’s palms grow cold and sweaty just from thinking about that, and she wipes them on the fabric of her dress as discreetly as she can, painfully aware that Margaery’s eyes seldom miss a detail.

Alongside the unsettling feeling comes the omega’s scent, and she breathes it in, unthinking. Lily-of-the-Valley and tuberose, hyacinth and freesia fill her nostrils, and another thousand flowers she’s only ever seen the picture of in Maester Luwin’s books. 

Sansa has never been to Highgarden, but both Margaery and her grandmother Olenna described it to her in detail. With the omega this close, she can almost picture it in her mind. The castle, perched on a hilltop like one of Daenerys’ dragons, towers so high that miles upon miles of the surrounding plains are visible from the bannered battlements. Highgarden, with an entire forest within its concentric walls, countless fountains and bubbling brooks, and a hedge maze grown in its entirety from rose bushes. 

“Your Grace?” Margaery has leaned forward, one hand lightly resting upon hers. “Are you alright?” Her hand is warm against Sansa’s, calloused where hers is scarred. Perhaps a Queen and her Hand should not haul wood and feed the laborers themselves, but Sansa declared everyone would pull their own weight in the repairs, and set the example. 

“I was just… drifting for a moment.” Sansa is reluctant to pull her hand away, but does so and picks up one of the messages the Maester left for her before Margaery can suggest she head to bed. 

“Shall we?” There definitely is a displeased curve to the omega’s mouth, and she adds. “The quicker we are done here, the quicker we can rest.” 

Margaery sighs and settles into her chair more comfortably while Sansa breaks the seal of the first message. 

“A note from Robett Glover at Deepwood Motte.” The parchment creaks when she angles it for Margaery to see. “He offers to send ironwood to expedite Winterfell’s repairs.”

“And not so subtly hints that you should take his daughter as one of your wards.” 

“That he does.” Sansa ponders the matter, her gaze wandering to the crackling fire. Lord Glover did not come when the banners were called to defend Winterfell, but he did bend the knee when she was declared Queen. Perhaps he’s simply searching for an honorable way to make amends. 

“I see no harm in it,” Sansa finally says. “It will be good to have children under our roof again.” 

The rest of the messages are easily dealt with: more offers of help, a minor lord asking her advice to settle a dispute, and Robin Arryn proposing to re-establish a stable trading route once the snows have melted.

“My cousin seems confident that winter will end soon.” With the Night King defeated, they had thought that the cold’s suffocating grip would break but the snow had continued falling as if it didn’t care for the desires of men.

Sansa tosses the parchment on the table and rubs her eyes. They itch and she has to stifle a yawn. Margaery was right after all: all of this could have waited till the morning. 

“He may have cause. A scout arrived at nightfall, just before the guards were shutting the gates. From Greywater Watch.” 

“From the Neck?” Sansa forgets all about her tiredness. “With what news?”

“Snow has begun to melt.” Hearing that, Sansa thanks gods she scarcely believes in. “The scout reports that Reed’s lookouts have seen blocks of ice float down from the Shivering Sea and into the Bite.”

If ice is flowing freely from far colder waters… Winter may indeed be at an end. That would mean fresh game instead of salted meats, and a new harvest. Light and life for people that have endured too much already. Sansa would be happy not to see snow for a few years – even though summer flurries are a fairly common occurrence around these parts. Old Nan used to say that summer squalls were caused by spirits that had died before their time and, envious of the living, brought them the unexpected chill of the grave during the hottest nights. Sansa never admitted it out loud, but Nan’s strange tales terrified her and she hated when Bran or Arya would ask her for more.

After travelling the King’s Road, she learned that the wickedness of the world far exceeded anything Old Nan’s fevered mind could conjure up for them. 

“I should like to see him first thing in the morning, when he’s rested.” Sansa tries to chase hope from her voice, but finds it is a hard task. Already, in her mind’s eye, the castle is as full as she remembers it being during her childhood, and the many villages that Ramsay Bolton burned to the ground are being rebuilt.

Perhaps she’ll visit the Godswood and the Sept and pray for summer after all.

“As you wish, Your Grace. I left him in the kitchen with a bowl of stew, and the guards will house him in the barracks for the night.”

Sansa nods, her thoughts a thousand leagues away as they span the entirety of her kingdom. She’s spent weeks studying the crumbling maps Maester Wolkan keeps within the aviary, and can name even the smallest of villages, every brook and all the acres of woodland she reigns over. Some places like Umber Hall are lost forever - smouldering ruins that will act as memorials until the land reclaims them. But others, most of them, could be salvaged or rebuilt if only summer came. 

In the hearth, the fire is down to reddish embers, and the wind rattles the window casings. The pervasive chill which the fire protected her from has returned with a vengeance - a harsh reminder that it is not summer yet. 

“My Queen?” Margaery moves close again, and Sansa’s thoughts grind to a halt. “Sansa?”

Her voice contains the same kind lilt it held when Margaery met her the first time and asked her about Joffrey. And, just as they had during that walk, her eyes darken with concern.

“I should have listened to you.” When Margaery stares at her this way, Sansa’s heart thunders like a maddened horse inside her chest. “I must be more tired than I thought.” The admission is followed by a jaw-splitting yawn and, this time, Sansa cannot stop it.

“Well.” Her Hand stands and drops into a graceful courtesy. “Then I suggest we adjourn and meet the Reed scout with the rest of the Small Council in the morning.”

Her chair scrapes loudly against the flagstones, and Sansa climbs to her feet as well, her legs so stiff she has to help herself by leaning against the table.

“Wait.” She speaks hurriedly, before courage deserts her. “There is one other thing.” Funny, how feeding Ramsay to his own dogs caused very little emotion to stir within her, but she can barely bring herself to ask a simple question.

“Yes?” 

“Some of the Lords have suggested I marry.” Sansa’s mouth twists as she speaks. Some had done more than suggest. “Despite me pointing out that I do not lack in siblings and that the matter of succession is not a pressing one – not at the moment at least – they are… adamant.” Dogs that had snapped their jaws shut around a bone and had no intention of letting go.

“Most of them are alphas and, to them, you siring a pup would be a sign of strength.” Alpha Queens were so rare they were the stuff of legends. The warrior-queen Nymeria had been one, or so it was rumored, and Rhaenyra Targaryen was another. In the latter case the tale was grim: the aspiring Queen had been fed to a dragon by her own brother. 

“Did they propose a name? Or name themselves?”

It may be wishful thinking, but Sansa has the impression that Margaery’s tone cooled and her eyes, in the low light, appear like intent pools of shadow.

“They have, but I already have someone in mind.”

“Oh?” Indeed, the omega’s tone rivals the frost rimming the window. “And who may that be?”

“You.” Sansa sees no need to tiptoe around the issue. Should Margaery say no, she’d rather know. “I was wondering if you would be my Queen.” The choice is not one that came lightly to her, nor something she concluded in the space of a fortnight. But Margaery is the only one save Tyrion who ever showed her kindness in King’s Landing when the entirety of the court regarded her as a traitor and a whore. Margaery consoled her when her nightmares about Joffrey and her father would cause her to wake in a cold sweat, throat raw from screaming. The only one around whom, even now that she is a scared, little bird no longer, Sansa feels like she can let her guard down. 

She’d always believed she’d fall in love with a handsome, valiant prince, until her heart had shown her different.

“Me?” Margaery chokes out, her face a mask of shock. There’s some inherent satisfaction in leaving a woman of such wit utterly speechless. Sansa has to stifle a bout of nervous giggles, but laughing in the face of the woman who could be her future wife would never do.

“Yes.” Sansa steps closer to her and, before the omega can move back, or slap her hands away, she twines their fingers together. “You do not need to answer now. But think on it?”

“You would have to name a new Hand.” Margaery says weakly. She doesn’t pull her hands away and that makes Sansa’s heart soar.

“I would.” She agrees, a sudden surge of emotion constricting her throat. Her fingers are shaking, or perhaps it is Margaery’s hand in hers. Sansa neither knows nor care. 

“I-I will consider it.” At last the omega unclasps their hands, but her fingers linger just a moment longer than is proper. “I will consider it.” She uses the same words Sansa had employed when some of her Lords had asked her own hand: her voice is stronger now if still quivering. 

The next moment the omega is bidding her goodnight, and although she’d very much like her to remain, Sansa knows she has to let her go. 

That night, sleep is a long time coming. 

***

“Yes.” 

The answer is murmured against her cheek the following morning. 

Sansa is already awake, but has kept her eyes stubbornly shut against the growing morning light. Besides, she reasoned as she emerged from fitful sleep, lingering in bed would delay Margaery’s inevitable rejection.

“Yes.” This time, the word is followed by a feather-like kiss to her cheek, and then another pressed more firmly against her brow. 

“Yes.” Sansa cracks open a doubtful eye, afraid that she is dreaming. 

It is earlier than she thought, the greyish glow of predawn washing over her room’s walls. Margaery is perched on the edge of her bed, clothed only in her nightgown. The light shines through the linen a little when she moves and highlights her curves in soft shadow. 

Sansa swallows. Hard. 

“Yes,” Margaery bends down until their lips are brushing. Her breath is a warm caress against Sansa’s upper lip. “I will marry you.” 

The omega kisses her then, and her mouth tastes like mint leaves. 

***

They should marry in the Godswood, like her father and all the other Starks before his time. Sansa has this discussion with Maester Wolkan inside his newly renovated quarters while he feeds his messenger birds.

“It’s tradition.” He insists. He is a peaceful man, Maester Wolkan. Adverse to violence, soft-spoken. Sansa has never seen a Northman look as out of place among his own people as he does. The Maester has stopped to look at her and is still holding morsels of bloody meat between his stubby fingers. One of the ravens caws impatiently, fluffing its wings and snatches a large chunk of food before if flyes atop a nearby bookshelf. 

“The lords expect tradition. After all the North has been through, it would be wise to offer it to them.”

“I’ll think on it.” Sansa lies before she leaves him to his ravens and his studies.

She has made up her mind already, but she is her father’s daughter and remembers what he taught her. His voice – the rough, warm lilt she loved so well – echoes in her thoughts. A good lord, he used to say to Sansa and her siblings when they gathered around the Great Hall fireplace at night, always makes a show of listening to their retainers, even when the answer is already clear.  _ Especially _ when it is.

Maester Wolkan means well, Sansa is sure of it, but as she returns to her duties, she can’t stop herself from thinking of Maester Luwin who had a sweet and a bedtime story for all of his Lord’s children whenever they would ask. Sansa always waited for Arya to fall asleep before she did - so that she’d have the tales of gentle knights and fair princesses all to herself.

He lives on, him and many others, like a half-glimpsed shadow under the pale winter sun, and while the guards speak in hushed whispers of the castle being haunted, Sansa finds an odd comfort in the thought.

Loss is more bearable with its ghosts walking beside her.

***

In the end, they are married outside the walls. 

The flatlands on which the Battle of Winterfell was fought have been cleared of the corpses, Wights and simple dead alike. For days, the smoke from the great pyres darkened the sky and the air stank of offal and burnt wood. Worse had been the ashen snowfall that came after: it covered the castle overnight and they woke, stupor and horror painted on their faces to find every source layered in grey. The food, their clothes, the very air they breathed - everything smelled of death for weeks. 

Flanked by her honor guard, Sansa tries not to dwell on it. 

Instead, she focuses on Margaery, resplendent in the Tyrell’s colors. The dress is made of wool, much like the one Sansa herself is wearing. It’s simple in style but soft-looking, and the cloak her bride donned over it recalls the deep shade of an ironwood forest. Sansa can tell, from how her lords and ladies stare that - by eschewing the splendor of the Southern courts - Margaery has already won them over. 

With neither of their fathers present, accompanying them to the altar would fall to their oldest brothers - but both have lost them all and Jon has vanished, with Tormund and the rest of the Wildlings, somewhere beyond the Wall. 

It is a Karstark, one of late Lord Rickon’s distant cousins, who breaks the impasse. With one pointed look at Sansa - in reply to which she nods discreetly - he steps up to Margaery and offers her a gallant hand. He and her betrothed must be around the same age, but the Karstark man still looks like a boy, fresh-faced and yet untainted by the world. Sansa suddenly remembers that because of an old injury he didn’t follow his cousins South and feels strangely glad.

Next to her, Tyrion Lannister tugs at her sleeve. Unable to come herself, the Dragon Queen had sent her Hand to represent her accompanied by a sizeable escort and a chest of old treaties from the Red Keep’s library as a gift. 

He tugs again and, this time, Sansa bends toward him so he can whisper in her ear. There is visible relief written on Tyrion’s face, and she remembers another wedding, and a time in which she did not kneel. It is a lifetime ago, the memories faded as if they had another woman for their protagonist and not her. 

“I would be honored, Your Grace.” Sansa gazes into those oddly colored eyes and knows he means it. “To accompany you.”

“I would be honored if you did.” She whispers back. 

Since settling on one faith would have ended up offending someone, it feels a little crowded when they gather at the altar. First, a Septon from the Vale approaches them and binds their hands together with a length of linen - “so that what is joined by the Gods may never be untied by men” - he intones, before allowing the Red Priestess to step forward. 

There is no love lost between the two as they eye each other warily, but whatever differences they may have are set aside in honor of the day. The Priestess is a reedy-looking woman that lacks Melisandre’s aura, but her words are no less potent. She lights a brazier and tosses something that looks like chalk into the flames. For a moment they burn bright blue, before returning to the usual orange-gold. 

“In this fire blessed by the Lord of Light you burn something of your past, so that you may be reborn anew into His light.” 

Sansa and Margaery reach for bundles they had already prepared. Hers contains the necklace Petyr Baelish placed around her throat before they left the Fingers for the Eyrie, but Sansa has no idea what her bride chose. 

The fire eats the offerings with a strange eagerness as if it were alive and every tongue of flame licking into the cloth bore teeth. Her eyes begin to burn from the smoke and the heat, but Sansa forces herself to watch until what she tossed in the embrace of the Red God is nothing but a crumbling husk. 

She’s only going along with this foreign rite because it’s best to give all the faiths the same importance but, as the silver of the necklace runs in rivulets among the burning coal, a great shadow seems to leave her spirit. 

Judging from Margaery’s face, she feels the cleansing too. 

A crone came for the old gods. Her back is bent with age and her skin is burned by sun and wind and snow in equal measure. There is unease among the crowd as she approaches, and, when a gust of wind shakes the threadbare cloak she is wearing, Sansa is reminded of a raven in flight. Hopefully, her words won’t be so dark. 

“A long time ago the Northern Kings would wed the land along their bride.” The woman’s voice is like dry twigs crushed underfoot. “This land, it has suffered much and the hatred of men has caused our gods to turn away from it.” 

Behind Sansa, someone hacks loudly and spits onto the ground to ward off against evil. 

“Will you marry the land again, Wolf Queen? And you, Queen of the Roses, will you wed this land that is not yours and bleed for it so that its people do not have to?” 

Ancient she may be, but her eyes shine with sharp intelligence. 

“I will.” 

“I will.” 

They pledge at the same time, and the air around them thickens with a magic far older than their lineage. Somehow, Sansa is sure that Bran is smiling, and her unease trickles away. 

“Then bleed you shall.” 

The knife the woman bears is long and wicked. It gleams as it catches the first real sunlight they have had in months and someone in the gathering shrieks their alarm. 

Unperturbed, Sansa offers her free hand: the cut stings worse than it looks, but everything is over as quickly as it began. 

At her side, Margaery bites back a lowly hiss and they extend their hands, bleeding crimson on the altar and the pile of snow below it. 

“It is done!” The Septon and the Priestesses announce in unison, and though the man looks a tad green in the face he soon recovers.”You are wed, wife and wife, in front of the old Gods and the new!” 

“The Queens in the North!” 

Robett Glover is the first to break the silence, but the next instant, his voice is drowned beneath a dozen others. 

“The Queens in the North! The Queens in the North!” 

Sansa raises her eyes to the sky and has to squint to shield them from a light she’s grown unaccustomed to. 

Against the perfect blue of early spring, the listless, dusty banners of her vassals have never looked so colorful. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly married, Sansa and Margaery sit at the wedding feast which becomes another of many beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. Just setting up for some... stuff :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the read.
> 
> \- Dren

The Great Hall is as packed with guests as it had been when King Robert visited, perhaps even more so. Feeling that every Northerner who could make it to Winterfell in time had a right to attend the wedding feast, Sansa had sent riders out to as many villages as they could reach in a feasible time frame. 

While ravens were still flying to the other noble houses – including what was left of the Greyjoys and Derwa Frey who was Head of her House at least for the time being – people had begun to flow in. 

At first, it was a trickle. Farmers came from the nearest village, bringing what they could to contribute to the celebrations, even though Sansa hadn’t asked. Hunters brought deer and rabbit and boar they had managed to track down despite the snow, and those that came with nothing joined the workers on the walls or took turns helping in the kitchen. 

Soon enough a temporary village had sprouted up in the shadow of Winterfell’s many towers, and Sansa secretly hoped it would set the foundation for a permanent town. 

In the days that led up to the wedding, the trickle had become a flood and, as a result, noblemen are sitting elbow to knee with smallfolk. Some, she is sure, have grumbled about it, but wine from the southern vineyards, beer, and mead quickly blunted even the sharpest tongues. 

Flanked by her wife and Tyrion, Sansa fails to hide a smile. 

The rest of the high table is taken up by her relatives and the surviving bannermen of House Tyrell: Uncle Edmure is busy talking about his soon-to-be-born heir with anyone who’ll listen while, two seats away from Bran, Robett Glover and Yara Greyjoy are busy discussing the best way to build a galley.

“What a remarkable sight.” Tyrion reaches across from her and pours himself another cup of wine. “When I saw how you had seated everyone, I anticipated there would be blood.”

To be completely fair, Sansa had feared the same, but Robett Glover had been the one to ask. “The Greyjoy woman offered salt,” he had explained to his somewhat bewildered Queen, “and one of her cousins to marry my son.” 

Sansa waves her empty goblet and Tyrion dutifully fills it. 

“I believe Lord Glover means to turn his enemies into friends by marriage.” The wine is far too strong by itself, and she adds a good measure of water to it. She wants to keep a clear head for what will come after the feast. 

Next to her, Margaery shifts and, letting a hand drop under the table, lightly traces her thigh as if she were reading every last one of her thoughts. 

Something stirs, hot and urgent, inside Sansa’s belly and, even though she presses her thighs together, she feels herself begin to harden. Margaery’s fingers edge slowly upward, and a knowing smile is plastered on her face. Her eyes, in the amber glow of all the Great Hall’s fires, sparkle a bright, golden-flecked brown. Sansa’s gaze is effortlessly captured and everything else fades until - for a heavy moment that feels completely out of time - only the two of them exist. As Sansa’s vision seems to narrow, she is surrounded by the heady scent of roses and she grabs Margaery’s hand under the table, like a lifeline. Margaery’s pupils have contracted to barely discernible slivers of obsidian and her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink. 

Her mouth looks soft, her lips are parted, and Sansa’s body keens for a kiss that cannot happen just yet. 

“An interesting proposition.” Tyrion’s small talk is a blessing. “And a wise one.” 

Sansa has a tough time tearing her eyes away from her wife but manages and, after squeezing her hand one last time, Margaery turns away as well to engage the young Lord Arryn in lively conversation. It’s surprising, but nobody around them seems to have noticed what transpired, nobody save her has their nose stuffed by the pervasive scent of roses in bloom. 

The fragrance has taken root inside her: it prickles her lungs pleasantly like so many thorns and - when two servants heave an entire roasted boar onto the high table and cut her the first slice - Sansa can barely savor the gamey, flavorful meat. 

Everything smells, everything  _ tastes _ like Margaery and she begins to salivate. 

_ Restlessness is not becoming of a true lady. _ Septa Mordane whispers in her ear, stern as ever even from the grave. 

And so, Sansa returns her attention to the guests and the feast, which is now well underway.

Aside from the massive boar, she was presented with - meat that after her approval was evenly split between as many as possible - there are deer and rabbit, plus trout and a quantity of other sweetwater fish. Everything is accompanied by winter vegetables: potatoes fried in pork grease and roasted onions, cabbage and sauerkraut and the noble houses each brought something that their lands are known for. 

“To think that not too long ago we were at each other throats like wolves - pardon me, Your Grace perhaps it is not the best analogy.” Tyrion pulls a plate of onions toward them and skewers one on the end of his dagger. It’s a strange knife, with the handle made of bone and wrapped in sinew, similar to what the Dothraki use. As he bites into it, sauce drips into his beard, and he dabs at the mess with a kerchief, shrugging when some of the juices stain his doublet. 

“It is remarkable, yes.” There has been some tension especially with the Greyjoys and the Freys but after those bannermen who tried to stir trouble were horsewhipped, no matter which House they belonged to, spirits had calmed quickly. “Although I see you now prefer the Targaryen colors to your own.” Despite the drops of grease that glisten on the velvet, Tyrion manages to look resplendent: his doublet is the black of midnight with scarlet highlights running up the sides. They remind Sansa of a dragon’s claw marks and she is sure the detail is intentional. At his throat, a pin in the shape of a hand holds a half-cape in place, a reminder of who he serves, just in case someone gets too blinded by alcohol and revenge. 

Tyrion snorts into his cup. “I wish it was that easy to make people forget I am a Lannister.” His grin is fixed in place, more like a rictus. “But I am afraid I’ll never live it down." He is haunted by ghosts just the same as she but has a harder time of it.

For Sansa, the dead are cherished memories she never wishes to let go of, but Tyrion's relatives are revenants that cast his soul in shadow as if he were the object of a curse. The Kingslayer, the Whore Queen and Lord Tywin, the cruelest lion of the pride. Commoners speak of the Starks with reverence and regret - especially when it comes to Robb - but for the Lannisters, they have only hate. It must be why Tyrion refused Casterly Rock despite being the only one with a solid claim to it.

“If Northmen are sitting at the same table with the Frey and Yara Greyjoy, then everything is possible.” It feels awkward to console someone so cunning with empty platitudes, but Sansa feels she has to try and sell the lie. Tyrion looks doubtful and, following a sudden urge, she takes his hand. “I am sorry I humiliated you. At our wedding.” 

“Our wedding was a farce devised to humiliate the both of us.” Tyrion’s eyes are chips of stone, one onyx, and the other sharp-edged jade. “What could you possibly have done? No.” He shakes his head in the perfect imitation of a lion's mane. “I will not accept your apology, Your Grace, because it is not needed. But I shall accept another cup of wine.” 

Without speaking further, Sansa motions a servant for a fresh pitcher. 

Outside, the sky is now pitch-black, but the feast does not slow down. Music starts somewhere in the hall, and several guests climb to their feet (some more steadily than others) to clear enough space for a dance. Sansa and Margaery watch amused as the Ironborn that came with Yara try to teach their finger dance to the men of the Vale. After a few come too close to losing a finger, it is Yara herself that calls a stop to it, and her bannermen content themselves with drinking each other under the table, while she flashes one of her roguish grins in Sansa’s direction. 

She nods back, but at her side, Margaery stiffens. She bares her teeth, and as her eyes acquire a dangerous, possessive light, the scent of roses becomes suffocating. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that one, Your Grace.” Tyrion leans over Sansa to address Margaery directly. “She has her sights firmly set on Queen Daenerys.” 

“She better.” Margaery’s tone is clipped, but she appears mollified. Slightly.

Sansa allows a soothing rumble to leave her lips, confident that the music and the laughter around them will hide the sound from everyone but Margaery. Her wife’s reaction fills her with satisfaction: Margaery blushes and dips her head in her direction, demure and eager all at once and Sansa is very tempted to take her hand and lead her into their chambers, everyone else be damned. 

She resists and redirects her thoughts to her first encounter with Yara Greyjoy. The event is still quite vivid in her mind and how could it not? The two of them crossed paths at Dragonstone when Sansa and Jon went to meet Daenerys and begged her for her dragons and her help. Yara had been present at the meeting and had not really bothered hiding her contempt. Jon pretended not to notice, but Sansa matched her stare for heated stare until the tension between them became so apparent that Daenerys had to suggest they reconvene later in the day. 

It was during that break that Yara found her, gaze lost at sea and head filled by the ear-splitting roar of the waves against the island’s jet-black cliffs. From above the walls and underneath a sky that promised a deluge, they looked like a pack of grey-white, starving wolves intent on devouring as much of Dragonstone as they could before fairer weather drove them back. 

Fresh, rain-scented air had done nothing to lessen the heat between them and, to Sansa, Yara had looked torn. Unsure if she should throw Sansa off the battlements or kiss her. 

It had made her wonder what it would feel like, to be pressed against the body of an alpha as strong as the Ironborn woman was, but Sansa had come to the conclusion that the inevitable jostling for dominance would make the lust they felt burn hotter than a flash fire and leave nothing but resentment behind. 

Yet, her brief time in Yara’s company has convinced her of one thing: the woman is strong-willed, loyal to a fault and that makes her a perfect companion for the Dragon Queen. 

She says so both to Tyrion and her wife and, while Margaery doesn’t look at all impressed, Tyrion is nodding his agreement. 

“Who knows?” From the look on his face, it is clear he’s counting ships and adding forces. “Mayhap the South will also have two Queens.” 

“We shall see, shan’t we?” Margaery lightly touches Sansa’s wrist, fingertips burning like a brand against her skin. “But not tonight, I think. The hour is growing too late for speculation.” 

It is, thankfully, true. Festivities have quietened down and, while a lone lute is still playing somewhere in the courtyard, most of the guests are too full of wine and food to move.

Deciding it is time to bid goodnight Sansa stands and, amid a loud scraping of chairs, the rest of the high table follows. Much to her displeasure, someone has to hold Uncle Edmure up.

“Esteemed guests,” she begins, lifting her cup one last time, “dear friends.” She makes an encompassing gesture to include the entire room and, at the end of the table, Derwa Frey sits up just a little straighter. “We both thank you for the gift of your company tonight, and for your blessings.” Somebody shushed the lute player and her voice carries well beyond the Hall. Every word now must be chosen with care. 

“Lord Tyrion very intelligently remarked what a miracle it is that we can sit together like this so soon and I agree.” A few men mutter, undoubtedly cursing the Lannister’s name, but Sansa is glad to see the other nobles hurry to silence them. “My father used to say that in winter only the pack survives, and what better example of it than what we’re part of here, tonight?  _ We _ survived, and you all came to celebrate with me and my Queen and - in doing so - set aside your differences.” There are more rumbles this time – someone guffaws openly.

“I’m not so naïve, my Lords and Ladies, as to believe that a simple wedding can mend all wounds. But I will take it as a good start,” Sansa brings her goblet down on the table with a resounding crash. “Because winter is not over, but if we stand together we will see it end!” 

The silence is deafening, to the point that Sansa’s ears begin to ring from it. She forces herself to remain still, to wait and let her words sink in, fearing all the while that she has miserably failed. 

Then, just as she is considering a hasty exit, Yara Greyjoy bangs both fists onto the table. 

“The Queens in the North!” 

The Ironborn take up her call, some drumming their fists like she is, others banging their cups or the hilts of their knives on the long tables. 

“The Queens in the North!” 

Not to be outdone, Sansa’s bannermen join in, then Margaery’s and the men of the Vale. A noise so deafening it would be fit to wake the dead in the crypt below fills the castle, every man, woman and child screaming their defiance against the night. 

Long lost friends and bitter enemies raise their cups again and again, in a toast that seems to have no end. Men three times her size are crying openly and warriors who would have gutted one another during the war now share a cup. 

Beyond Winterfell’s walls the world is quiet, hidden under a thick blanket of snow that is falling even now, but inside Sansa’s heart winter is finally over. 

***

They are not heckled to their bedroom - the women see to it. 

Nobly born and commoner alike they form a ring around them and hustle them upstairs, voices raised in song to drown the men’s obscene suggestions. 

One of them - a Fossoway unless Sansa is mistaken - takes her wedding cloak, while a mixed group of Mallister and Manderly girls does the same for Margaery. 

Everyone is giggling, and most of the younger girls blush whenever Sansa looks their way. A few go as far as to sigh wistfully and sway their hips - that is until Margaery snaps and curls a lip at them. 

That puts a stop to the sighs but the girls keep laughing and some of the more stately ladies forget themselves enough to join in. Most of it is posturing: the sighs and smoky stares, the heavy-lidded looks and worried lower lips. The women are playing the part traditionally reserved to the men, who would pretend they want to seduce the bride away from her husband up to the bedroom’s doorstep. Sansa had steeled herself for it, told herself she could endure despite the thought turning her stomach but, as it turns out, she shouldn’t have fretted at all. Margaery, she suspects, has more than a hand in that and Sansa will have the rest of the night to thank her. 

As they make ready to enter their rooms, there is a commotion at the back of the small group. Tyrion appears and elbows his way to them, a tide of affronted gasps following in his wake. 

“What-?” 

Something horrible must have happened for him to interrupt, and Sansa’s stomach sinks. Some of the bannermen are drunk-fighting, surely. Or Uncle Edmure fell down the stairs. But he ignores her and, instead, makes straight for Margaery. 

“You take good care of her now, you hear me?” His voice is pure gravel, its pitch low enough that only she and Margaery can hear. “You take good care of her, or else.” He looks like a small, fierce lion then, with his eyes narrowed and his chest puffed out in pride. 

Surprising Sansa yet again, Margaery nods. Her eyes are soft and full of compassion. 

“I promise you I will.” She replies in serious tones, and her words have the hallmarks of an oath. “By the old gods and the new.” 

“Good.” Tyrion nods, swaying in place a little. “Good.” 

He seems on the verge of adding more but, having recovered from their initial shock, the ladies close ranks around him and drag him away with them. 

They are halfway down the stairs when Sansa hears his voice again, lighter now and full of repressed laughter as he starts to tell a joke. 

A moment later, Margaery tugs her inside their rooms and she forgets everything else. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally alone in their rooms, Sansa and Margaery share their first night together - and together banish the ghosts that haunt them from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was fun! I'm floored by the warm reception it's gotten and who knows, maybe I'll write more in this post canon universe. See what other characters are up to! 
> 
> Happy reading as always. 
> 
> \- Dren

Inside their rooms silence is a live, pervasive thing and Sansa’s senses reel at the sharp contrast. The ironwood doors closing behind them are thick enough to stop everything but the occasional snatch of a song, and all other noise is swallowed by the snow. 

She does not have to see outside to know that copious, fat flakes are still swirling to the ground. There are a telling chill and a sharp edge to the air that make her gums ache. Occasionally, some of the snow finds its way down the chimney and, inside the hearth, flames bend and spit as the particles of ice water melt to vapor over them. 

The lowly hiss and the slow crackling of the fir logs in the fireplace are a different, softer sort of tune. The swoosh-thump of the blood inside her ears acts as counterpoint as she grows progressively lightheaded and stiffens further down below. 

And, away from everybody else, Margaery’s scent is even stronger. Completely drunk on it, Sansa stumbles forward: the fragrance seems to have gained substance and wraps around her lungs as vines would do when covering a wall. It’s sweeter too – water lilies and honeysuckle mixed in with the roses. 

It pulls at something inside Sansa, a side of her that is dark and feral like the undead dire wolves which bit their way through the soldiers outside of Winterfell’s walls. Something her mother and her Septa told her she should never show because it was not becoming of a lady. 

These inclinations - Lady Catelyn’s mouth curled around the word when she haltingly gave Sansa an explanation – where mostly absent among noblewomen. Her mother had carefully avoided the word alpha, undoubtedly thinking it a mercy, but might as well not have bothered. Sansa had left her side feeling confused. Lost.

Later – she cannot remember now if a day had passed or a week – she came to the conclusion that she was a disappointment, an “accident of breeding” were the exact words she’d used with Maester Luwin, when he found her crying her eyes out at Lyanna Stark’s feet down in the crypts. 

“Nonsense.” The old man’s voice was stern but his hands, as he pulled her back into the light, were kind. “Just because things are seldom talked about they do not wink out of existence.” He led her up into the Aviary and pulled down a dusty book. It was so big and heavy the Maester had to cradle it to his chest like a small child in order to carry it to the table. 

“This is not as complete as Maester Malleon’s work on the lineage of the Great Houses, but will satisfy our purpose.” As he flipped through the cream colored pages, Sansa recognized several sigils. There were Greyjoy and Baratheon, Tyrell and a section on House Frey that seemed to never end, but finally the Maester found the chapter pertaining to the Starks. 

“Look here.” He ordered, a gnarled finger pointing at a name, “and here. And again, here.” 

They were all women’s names and, next to each one, the scribe had painstakingly added a red “α”. 

“See? You’re not the only one in your line, child. And all of them had husbands,” he smiled and pressed a sweet into her hand. “Your Lord Father will see to it that you are married also, to a man that will cherish you the way he does your Lady Mother.”

Lord Eddard had said the same as they were leaving for King’s Landing and, for a time, Sansa believed them both. 

“Sansa?” 

She blinks and the room returns in focus. Margaery has fed more wood to the fire, and the sticky scent of resin mixes with that of flowers, to the point Sansa feels like they are standing in the middle of a forest. 

“Have you ever…?” The way Margaery is staring, head tilted as she studies every inch of Sansa is anything but demure. Under her wife’s heated gaze, Sansa may as well be wearing nothing, but Margaery’s desire is unlike anything she ever experienced. Despite his obvious appetites, Tyrion had been chivalrous and had made no move to touch her once she’d told him no. But Ramsay - the Bolton bastard had been able to make her feel filthy with a look.

The omega glides closer, eyes almost ablaze with hunger and, while there is a dusting of red on her cheeks, Sansa attributes it to the fire rather than sudden shyness. 

“I…” 

There had been Jeyne Poole, but they had left for King’s Landing together before whatever there was between them could progress very far. However, one particular afternoon was etched clearly in Sansa’s mind: it was evening, almost, and they had just returned from a horse ride with Father. Back then she detested riding, but Jeyne’s face had lit up so at the prospect that Sansa had agreed to go, her heart aching funnily whenever she looked at her best friend. They were alone in the stables when it happened: Jeyne had pulled her into a hug, telling her how glad she was they had gone on that adventure and she had been so warm and close… Sansa didn’t know how, but they had kissed. 

It was awkward, fumbling, a mess of teeth bumping into teeth that had left them at once breathless and giggling. They had regained some breath and then had kissed again, Sansa cupping Jeyne’s face like she had imagined, so many times, that a prince would cup hers. It was nothing but a childhood game, she thought, a play pretend. But, that same night as she recalled how soft Jeyne’s mouth had been against hers, Sansa had touched herself in tentative, uneven strokes that had her bite into the pillow as something she had no name for made light bloom behind her eyelids. 

For days afterwards, Sansa had been afraid Septa Mordane would know, at a glance, what she had done. 

Years later, there had been Ramsay but Sansa shuddered and forced those memories away.

“No. No I- not the way that you intend.” 

Margaery is close enough now that it’d only take a step to press their bodies finally together. Sansa does not take it, frozen utterly in place. Through the antechamber doors, the bedroom is partly visible: servants lit the fire there as well, and Sansa stares at the canopied bed with furs piled atop it against the cold. 

Other beds and other wedding nights crowd her mind and, alongside the haunting images comes a sense of mounting dread. At first, Sansa believes she can resist the terror that washes over her in cold, black waves, but it keeps on growing and makes a drowning woman out of her. Every breath she manages to draw comes in ragged, air whistling between teeth she did not know she had been clenching. 

She wants Margaery more than she ever wanted something in her life, but her other wedding nights were so fraught with sorrow and pain, she’s paralyzed by the fear that the dark, unspeakable things she had to endure will find a way to hurt her once again.

“Come.” Margaery doesn’t ask her what she is thinking. She does not press for details and instead offers her the quiet comfort of a seat next to the fire. Sansa had not realized how chilled her fear had caused her to become, but her bones yearn for the heat of the open flame and she leans forward, hands outstretched to soak in the warmth. 

Sated by the wood Margaery had thrown into it, the fire leaps and dances in the hearth, bathing the anteroom in hues of orange-gold. In the light, the intricate web of scars crisscrossing the back of Sansa’s hands stands out more clearly, some of the off-white marks as thin as the line of ink a quill leaves on paper, others thick and raised and ugly. 

Arms shaking, she resists the urge to hide her hands into her lap and is glad that Margaery, who has moved behind her, cannot see her face. 

The only ring Sansa is wearing – a band of bluish-gray Valyrian steel Margaery gifted her when she accepted her marriage proposal – glints in the firelight, and her mind conjures up another, far more troubling image. A serrated blade cutting her flesh and sharp laughter that hurts more than the wounds inflicted on her skin.

Margaery hands press down on her shoulders, holding her steady, and the touch jolts Sansa back to the present. 

“He can’t hurt you any longer.” The words are a warm whisper against her ear, Margaery’s fingers carding through her hair as she removes the pins Sansa’s servants had used that morning to hold her braid in place. 

Waves of chestnut colored hair tumble loose: they reach well below her shoulders, a few rebel strands drifting toward her eyes before Margaery gently pulls them back. Without speaking further, her wife works out the tangles with the help of an ivory comb, fingers brushing soothing patterns against her scalp.

Gradually Sansa’s fears trickle away: muscles that tension had tied up relax, her head drooping forward suddenly heavy and full of sleep. Tilting it back requires some effort, but she manages and blinks slowly up at Margaery whose lips curve upward in return. In her hair, the omega’s hands have stilled and Sansa reaches up to trace her jaw, breath catching at her wife’s beauty as if she were seeing her for the first time.

Her lips part in thanks, but before she can articulate a word, Margaery bends down to kiss her.

It’s soft and slow, but not as ungainly as one would think, considering how they are positioned. Sansa feels like her entire world is shifting, or someone has taken the stool from beneath her and, when her body disobeys her, causing her to fold into Margaery’s waiting arms, her heart jumps in alarm. But she isn’t falling off her seat: the roar filling her ears is that of her inner walls splitting open under Margaery’s assault. 

Sansa had begun to build them in King’s Landing, when she first understood the harsh realities of the royal court – high walls carved from ice just like the Wall that guarded the realm. She’d never seen it – and unlike Arya had no desire to – but Uncle Benjen had described it to her in detail. Impenetrable, foreboding and so high that shade gathered at its feet in near perennial nightfall. It could humble even the haughtiest of men by sheer size alone, Benjen had chuckled as he added the last bit, but Sansa had sensed the truth in his words. 

Each time someone hurt her – Joffrey, and Cersei, Petyr Baelish, her own Aunt and then Ramsay – a new layer of ice had formed over her heart. Sansa embraced her own personal winter and believed that, no matter what life next threw in the middle of her path, nothing could touch her there. 

She had been a fool.

The ease with which Margaery breached her innermost defenses is terrifying, yet Sansa has no choice but fall – completely besieged. The barriers fall alongside her, melting away into spring puddles. 

Sansa has no recollection of climbing to her feet but, suddenly, Margaery’s body is pressed wholly against hers. She goes stiff for a moment, her mind playing catch up with what’s happening between them but, when her wife’s tongue strokes boldly against hers, she kisses back. Hard. 

The omega exhales into her mouth, hands scrabbling at her back to undo the buttons of her dress, and Sansa swallows the soft sigh, already plotting the best way to elicit another. 

Their kisses become heated, a frenzy of bitten lips and clicking teeth but, to Sansa, it feels like they are standing in the middle of a blizzard. A vortex of emotion which threatens to knock them off her feet. She shivers, the desire that sparked between them raging more furiously than the fire inside the hearth, hot and cold at the same time. She prays that Margaery won’t slow, dreading that the fear will surge forward again if she does. 

Thanks to all the gods, her wife’s mind is firmly set on taking her to bed. 

Her shins bang into the stool, upturning it, but Sansa can barely hear the clatter over the harshness of her own breath. Margaery pulls her into the bedroom, white teeth dragging against her lower lip as their mouths collide again and again until they collapse onto the furs. 

Somehow, Margaery lands on top, hands molding up her ribs, fingers tugging the dress down by the low-cut collar before Sansa can even think to protest. 

Not that she wants to. 

Eyes wide, the omega frees her breasts and follows their curve with trembling fingertips. Her breathing is ragged too and, as her expression grows awestruck, Sansa tentatively tries to seize the opening. 

She’s not really sure what she should do, but she has heard how omegas expect their alpha mate to take the reins in bed, and once she caught her guards making light of a fellow that apparently couldn’t. The moment they had realized who was within earshot laughter had cut short, but Sansa could remember the man’s face clearly. His cheeks had been beet red and he had hunched his shoulders like he’d been punched in the sternum, refusing to even meet her eyes. 

The entire notion feels unnatural to her but above all she wants her wife to be content. Satisfied. 

Thus, for one long, queasy moment, Sansa tries to picture it in her mind: she watches herself holding Margaery down the way Ramsay did her, face pressed into the pillow as she - as she…. 

She cannot. Never. 

“Let me.” Margaery murmurs against her collarbone, breath dampening her skin. It is evident from the tender lilt of her voice that she has guessed her thoughts. “Let me guide you, Sansa.” 

Not trusting herself to speak, Sansa gives a shaky nod.

Margaery smiles then pushes her more firmly into the bed, methodically kissing the breath out of her as she takes away her dress. 

After, she pulls back and climbs off of Sansa, but only long enough to undo the strings that keep her own gown shut. She undoes them with deft fingers, her movements almost too quick to follow even though Sansa is trying her best to soak in every detail. 

The dress goes sailing into a corner of the bedroom and Margaery dives into the bed again. Her fingers are a flurry pattering on Sansa’s skin: they dig into her hips and flutter up her sides to scale her ribs before the omega takes firm hold of her nipples, twisting them. 

Underneath her Sansa melts with a groan, just like the snow occasionally falling from the chimney. 

She arches off the bed until only her shoulders and heels touch the furs and, when Margaery’s tongue finds one of her nipples, teeth nipping at the hardened flesh before she sucks it into her mouth, she cries out. 

Sansa is sharply aware of the stiffness between her legs and, as Margaery pulls back to regain some breath, she looks down the length of her own body. 

Even though her wife has gone nowhere near between her legs, Sansa is already rising. Under Margaery’s hungry stare, she stiffens to the point it hurts, her length swelling until it peaks proudly from the dark patch of curls covering her pelvis. 

As always, a grimace twists Sansa’s lips at the sight of all her scars, an intricate lattice work that flows across the dip between her heaving breasts to expand over her belly and curl around her thighs. But Margaery doesn’t seem to mind: she touches everywhere with reverence and where her fingers trace her mouth soon follows. 

The omega kisses a sloppy path across her quaking belly and then she’s stroking a hand between her thighs, pale fist pumping a slow rhythm that shakes Sansa to her bones.

Her other hand splayed on Sansa’s chest, Margaery crashes their mouths together again, the pace of her fist increasing at tasting eagerness upon her tongue. 

Sansa is lost, succumbed to the fire Margaery’s every stroke is building inside her: every now and then her lover shifts - she can’t tell whether it’s on purpose - and she can feel the heat of her core against her shaft. It’s a tender form of torture and Sansa starts to plead for her release, voice rusty and raw. 

“Gods-” She coughs and almost chokes on her next breath. “Please…” 

The same whiteness she experience the night she touched herself at the threshold of her teenhood creeps into her vision, and Sansa knows that she is close. 

“Please…”

Her hands tangle in the furs and when Margaery repositions herself to straddle her, the scorching heat of her cunt finally coming to rest against her throbbing length, Sansa almost comes. 

Loose hair framing her face, Margaery regals her with a toothy grin worthy of a wolf, hands gripping Sansa’s hips to steady both of them. 

Then, she is descending, mouth falling open in a silent scream of her own as she takes Sansa inside. 

If their positions were reversed, Sansa would thrust forward, instinct telling her to reach as far as she can go. As far as Margaery can take her. 

Like this, she can only buck so much under the omega’s weight, her wife pinning her in place without much effort but, after what feels like an eternity has passed, she bottoms out. 

Sansa tries to hold back, but each decisive roll of Margaery’s hips drives her closer to release.

“Let go.” Margaery collapses forward and nestles into the crook of her neck. Her rhythm, however does not falter. “Let go, let go, let go.” And then, a pleading note entering her voice, “fill me, fill me, fill me.” 

That does it. 

A flash of white steals Sansa’s eyesight, and she pitches over the edge, taking Margaery with her. Her hands are on Margaery’s back, and she feels even the tiniest shock travel down her lover’s spine: the omega sways above her, bends like a willow tree whipped by a summer gale. Her walls ripple around Sansa until she’s spent, and then again as a second orgasm rips through them both, as violent as the wind driving ice shards against the bedroom’s window. 

Time passes, the fire the servants had built for them guttering to a fistful of glowing ashes. Margaery makes no attempt to move away and Sansa is more than happy to hold her close even as she soften and slips out of her. The sweat coating their bodies soon becomes unpleasant, and Margaery gropes around without looking, her hand tugging one of the pelts over their nakedness to ward against the cold.

Then, curled up against her chest, the omega kisses her chin, her jaw, her forehead. Sansa’s eyelids grow heavy and she struggles to keep her eyes open, fighting against the drowsiness settling inside her bones till Margaery tells her it’s alright to fall asleep. 

For the first time since she was captured by the Bastard of Bolton, Sansa’s dreams are free of nightmares.

***

Margaery goes into labor at the height of summer. 

After the unnatural winter, weather played catch up with spring flashing past so quickly it had felt like a dream, and now the earth slowly bakes under the sun.

Just as Sansa had been hoping, some of those who came to attend the wedding decided to stay. New guards now walk the walls, young men and a handful of women attracted by the good pay, and the temporary shelters that had been constructed in the castle’s shadow have been replaced by homes of wood and stone. The rapidly expanding settlement already counts several shops and two inns, to serve the caravans that make the trip from the Vale of Arryn, and more and more people are moving in, attracted by the protection the castle’s garrison offers. 

And, beyond the town limit, what trees were burned during the war are being restored if possible, and land which hadn’t seen grain in hundreds of years is now covered in bronze-colored barley and a resistant variety of wheat they are trying to grow at Maester Wolkan’s suggestion.

Sansa is standing atop the battlements, taking it all in, when one of the servants comes to her. Her eyes have been drawn towards the spot where she knows the Wall stands, even though she’s too many leagues away to see it and – as always in these moments – her mind speculates about Jon. Is he standing on the Wall at this very moment, but facing South? Or is he still roaming beyond it alongside Tormund, unaware that the Seven Kingdoms are – finally – beginning to heal? 

A storm peeks over the horizon, a line made thin by the great distance, as black as the Night’s Watch banners - Sansa doubts it will bring rain as far as Winterfell. 

These aren’t the first clouds that have darkened the sky to the North during the summer but, by the time the foul weather reaches them, nothing remains save for a few, tattered clouds and a tired wind. 

“Your Grace-“ The man must have taken the steps at a run because he bends double, hands on his knees, as soon as he skids to a halt in front of her. “Your Grace, the…the..” 

Sansa forces down a mounting wave of irritation and waves a guard over. “You have water in the guard post, yes? Get this man some.”

“At once, Your Grace.” The guardsman turns away and rushes off, accompanied by the clinking of chainmail, only to return a moment later with a water skin. 

“Here, drink.” Before he can offer the container, the servant grabs it out of his hands and slurps from it gratefully. 

“Your Grace.” He resumes once he has caught his breath. “It’s Lady Margaery Your Grace. The child is coming and the midwife sent me to-“ 

_ Fetch you.  _

The man is left speaking to empty air, Sansa hurrying down the stairs that lead back into the keep quickly enough that her personal guard has to break into a run to rejoin her. 

By now, people have learned better than to stand in her way when they see her stride so purposefully around the castle, and she leaves a trail of scrambling servants in her wake as she weaves through the steam-filled kitchens. It may not look stately to shoulder past cooks and cauldrons of boiling soup, but the cramped back stairs – steep blocks of granite for steps – that the servants use to bring food to the Queens’ quarters, are also the shortest way to get there. 

She had known this summons would come for weeks now, but the midwife’s estimate was off by four days. Her child, it seems, is eager to come into this world. Yet, knowing that Margaery was close to her term and being faced with the reality of it, are entirely different things. 

Sansa had time to prepare, but she’s not nearly as collected as she’d like. All she can do to keep up appearances is forcing herself into a brisk walk but, inside her chest, her heart hammers away as if she were indeed running. 

Her new Hand, Lord Davos Seaworth, is waiting for her at the end of the climb.

He nods to her but keeps his peace, and Sansa is grateful for the silence. Her thoughts – most of them tinged by primal fear – are noise enough. 

A small crowd has gathered outside the bedchambers she and Margaery share. Her guards, who straighten to attention the moment she is spotted, and a smattering of ladies. Most leap out of her way without prompting and those that don’t move quick enough are summarily growled at. 

Sansa makes a note to apologize later - she can scarcely afford to offend the highborn ladies that hold court at Winterfell - but such thoughts flee her mind the moment she steps foot inside her rooms. 

Davos does not follow, but shuts the door behind her, almost on her heels, and Sansa knows he will stand guard with the rest of the soldiers until she re-emerges bearing news. 

A scream, rife with pain, pulls her to the bedroom in a hurry. Margaery lays in the middle of their bed, the midwife hands moving with purpose between her legs. 

Her helper, a slender girl no older than Sansa was when her Lord Father died, stands rigid as a wood plank to the side. In her arms, a babe is gurgling, already cleaned and swathed in a thick blanket save for the head. 

Sansa blinks and fails to understand. 

“There are two.” The midwife does not turn, but must have smelled her enter. “The second is coming, but she is tired. She needs your strength m’lady.” 

A pitiful moan breaks through Sansa’s shock and she darts to her wife’s side, Margaery’s hand clutching hers to the point of crushing bone the moment she senses her near. 

“Just a last push!” The midwife urges, and Margaery complies, sweat running from her brow in rivers. “There it is! A girl, Lady Margaery! A healthy boy and girl!” 

To prove the woman right, both babes begin to wail at the same time. 

Tears are stinging Sansa’s eyes but she bites the inside of her cheek and holds them back: Margaery needs her strength now, just like she did her wife’s the first time they made love. 

“The girl.” The words are slurred by tiredness, but clear enough. “Her name… Olenna.” 

Sansa nods, but her wife is already asleep and cannot see it. The boy, she decides, they will call Eddard, like her father. 

***

By the time she makes it to the Godswood, the sky is paling. 

Margaery is still sleeping. Sansa helped the midwife clean her and change her into a fresh nightgown and only left her side after the woman had chased her out with orders to find breakfast. 

Logically, the midwife is right: Sansa needs to keep her strength up so that she can tend to her wife when she wakes, but her stomach is still a knot of tension and she couldn’t eat a bite. 

Not yet. After she has offered thanks - perhaps. 

She sits on the same moss-covered stone where her Father used to and, closing her eyes, allows her exhausted mind to wander. The heart tree’s branches shift above her, a soft creak that Sansa is sure she would be able to turn into words if she listened hard enough. 

She thanks the old gods that her father passed down to her, and the Seven that were worshipped by her mother then, upon further reflection, spares a thought for the God of Light. The wind blows harder for a moment, eddies of stinging snow lightly buffeting her cheek as if to reply. The snow has not completely melted here, despite the heat, and she does not know what to make of that.

After, her soul feels unburdened and the metallic scent of her wife’s blood is but a memory. 

When she makes to stand, eager to return to Margaery’s side, pale sunlight is shining through the firs and leafy oaks. As her eyes come to rest on the heart tree’s roots they widen: a few, timid buck roses have pierced through the snow crusting the ground, their delicate buds straining to catch what sunlight they can.

Sansa cannot tell whether it is a sign, but chooses to interpret it as such and orders the servants to clear more snow from the spot and tend the roses.

It doesn’t take long before a rumor spreads, at first around the roaring fires of the castle’s kitchen, then the barracks and the blacksmith’s ringing anvil. In a fortnight, the story is told in the newly established town - Winter’s End the people call it now - of the rosebush growing in the shadow of a heart tree. 

The number and color of the roses vary from one storyteller to another, but there is a point on which everyone agrees: so long as roses bloom within the Godswood, a Stark will rule the North. 

**Author's Note:**

> Want more? [Follow the link on TUMBLR for more stories!](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/)
> 
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